Searching for Jack Gilbert (1925-2012)

Not a fox, but a mutt, a terrier trailing your blood-scent, sniffing out your heart - infernal confluence of coal, limestone and rust – that tracks youdown brick alleys, through stubborn tunnels, up inclines, across steel-girded river spans.

Ages ago I heard you, amazed you made poetry from Pittsburgh, the pit of my despair where nights burneddross and dirt to grit and mettle.